21 21 Despite being in a small town in southern Colorado, the Hotchkiss booster party could have easily been held in my hometown. The night air would likely be a bit warmer there, but nearly everything else feels interchangeable. As in so many other small towns, high school football is more than just recreation here. Instead, Friday night games are a gathering place, a touchstone, and the only entertainment around.
Whitney’s small hand is clasped in mine as we crest the short walkway from the parking lot, and between holding hands with my girlfriend and the nostalgia of the scene, I’m waiting for a soundtrack of radio hits from my senior year to start blaring over the PA system. When we near the field, we see Garrett and he gives us a wave. Carrying a large box in his arms, he awkwardly tries to adjust his grip on it before heading our way.
Whitney peeks in the box, then flops her hands over the top, obscuring the contents. “I’m so excited about this, Garrett. I can’t even tell you.”
He chuckles and nods in my direction. “I just hope you haven’t set this up as some sort of a big deal to Cooper. We’re just a bunch of rednecks out here, so his expectations should be in line with that.”
“I’ve set up nothing. He’s in the dark, completely.”
Whitney takes a glance my way and the look on her face is nearly as giddy as when I turn on her heated seat. Behind Garrett, another guy saunters up, carrying a similar-looking box in his hands. He’s wearing a State Parks and Wildlife jacket over a khaki uniform shirt, with army-green cargo pants, a wool skullcap tugged on over his dark brown hair. Broad shouldered and big, he could easily be mistaken for one of my teammates, maybe a tight end, because he’s clearly stout enough to take a real hit but probably still has the agility to get the ball down the field. His scruffy beard does nothing to obscure the tight set of his jaw. He clips Garrett’s shoulder with his own to get his attention.
“We’ve got a ton of shit left to do, Strickland. You need a hot cocoa, cupcake? If not, let’s get over there.”
He narrows his eyes to take me in but doesn’t show any particular reaction. If he knows who I am, he doesn’t care, not even a little bit. Whitney gets a quick nod in acknowledgment, but nothing else. I like this guy already.
“Relax, dude. Your face is going to freeze like that. And I already had a hot cocoa, thank you very much. I’ve been properly fueled by Swiss Miss.” Garrett gives us a broad grin.
“Braden does not like waiting. Or people. Or fun, really. That’s why he’s so good at his job. He’d issue citations for too much fun if he could. But game wardens aren’t exactly known for being a barrelful of giggles.”
Braden mutters a few curse words and walks off. No parting words, not even a cursory chin jut in our direction. I officially decide that he’s my new best friend in Hotchkiss.
Garrett heads in the same direction, walking backward.
“You hunt, Cooper?” I nod. “You should jump in the blind with us some morning. You and Braden can brood silently while I try to make one of you laugh. It’s probably a near impossible endeavor, but so is duck hunting sometimes.”
Watching Garrett walk away, the idea of making a life here suddenly seems like a picture I could draw in my mind, without having to erase certain parts or play with the shadows.
So many years in Denver, separated from the honest life I grew up in, made my world smaller somehow. My career only did the same. Because once you drop the people you can’t trust, avoid the women who only want you for your contract, and close ranks to stay focused on training, there aren’t many folks left.
Whitney must have noted the change in my body language, because she gives my hand a squeeze to get my attention. When I look her way, the expression on her face is curious, and I nearly end up grasping her cheeks in my hands and telling her everything I’m thinking. Every scary, wild, crazy, confusing thought that’s rattling around in my brain about my future and the two of us.
Enter Tanner Euland.
I could thank him or curse him for his timing, but when he strolls over with a gaggle of teammates in tow, he’s prouder than a rooster when I greet him by name. We talk about their season a bit and before I know it, a few of the guys have whipped out their phones to show me clips of the last game, asking what I think they should work on. Because to these kids, I’m Yoda. They may also think I have the Holy Grail stuffed in my back pocket and a fucking unicorn in the truck. In reality, I’m just a guy with a bum knee who can’t guide them any better than their coach already does.
One of the guys replays a clip, pushing the phone closer. I lean in to get a better look.
“You guys are spending too much time clustered up at the line after the snap. You need to work on firing out more. All that time wasted leaves the QB exposed and receivers losing potential yards.”
They all nod. A few grumble in agreement, as if they knew that was the problem and I’ve just proven them right. Tanner starts in with another clip, but a shorter, older version of him appears at his side before he can press play.
“Tanner, go help your mom. She kicked me out for being heavy-handed with the mini marshmallows.”
Whitney, the only woman in a cluster of testosterone for too long, spies an opportunity.
“And you think sending a teenage boy to assist your wife is a good solution, Kenny?”
Tanner’s dad grumbles, then shoves his hands in his pockets with a huff.
“At this point, all I know is that she’s in the weeds. By way of hot cocoa and apple cider. And a booster mom losing control of the concession stand isn’t a pretty sight.”
Whitney tugs until I reluctantly release her hand. “Let me help. I’m sure I can handle the proper application of mini marshmallows.”
She gives a little wave as she heads off toward the concession stand and my insides start to hammer and thump, watching her walk away.
OK, I need to go find Garrett and Braden so we can talk about duck hunting or debate shotgun loads. Anything that might restore my testosterone to proper levels and offset the insane urge to follow Whitney to the mini marshmallows.
On second thought, that bonfire looks a little weak. Maybe I can chop down a tree or some shit, then toss on enough fire starter to send the flames ten feet into the air. If I can just source an ax, I’m all over that.
Twenty minutes later, Kenny Euland has introduced me to the head coach of the football team, the mayor, and the Exalted Ruler of the local Elks lodge. I even meet the commander of the volunteer fire department, who happened by on his way to wrangling Garrett and Braden, two of its members. I’ve probably shaken more hands than I did on draft day. I’m also up to date on all the current political dramas that inevitably plague a small town.
Just as the mayor begins breaking down the details of this year’s municipal budget, the PA system crackles to life with a loud pop.
“OK, folks, the concession stand closes in ten minutes—last call on apple cider from Burkeville Orchards. Our fireworks show, so kindly put on by our local volunteer firefighters and sponsored by Grand Valley Ford, starts in fifteen minutes, so find your seats and settle in.”
Fireworks.
I slowly swing my gaze toward the concession stand. Whitney is standing there, looking my way and grinning with two thumbs up, her eyes wide with excitement.
She’s wearing a black V-neck sweater that shows off her perfect rack and a slim little scarf around her kissable neck, she’s rosy cheeked from the cold, and if I could, I’d snapshot this moment in time, just to know I’ll always remember exactly what this feels like.
Because falling in love is a big fucking deal.
Right here, right now, a wonderful woman is standing there, looking at me—stubborn, stupid, demanding me—as if she’s been charting my happiness with a deft hand and single-minded focus. Like there will never be a moment when I’ll have to worry she’ll do anything but take me as I am. With Whitney, it won’t matter if my knee never rehabs to one hundred percent, because she wouldn’t give a single fuck whether I’m playing or not. She’s like a stroke-before-midnight pardon from all the pressure I’ve put on myself to be a pro athlete, and nothing but.
With my body not healing the way I wish it would, my being able to imagine that there’s more for me beyond the game is a gift she could never understand. A few months ago, losing my career felt like the end of everything. I thought the best I could hope for was an incomplete life, one that was comfortable, but unfocused.
Now, I can actually imagine another outcome. The framework for a new life. One worth building my future on.
We make our way back to the parking lot where my truck is, and all of the crap Whitney insisted we bring along makes sense now.
Two wool blankets, a couple of pillows, and an old futon mattress she dragged out from underneath her bed. We set everything up in the truck bed, with the mattress as a base and the pillows piled up for us to lean on. I crawl in first, resting back against the pillows and keeping my knees bent while making a space for her to sit between my legs. Whitney scoots toward me, then settles in with her back against my chest.
The truck bed is facing the field, exactly where she told me to park, which at the time I thought was a little weird. But she was insistent, so I did what she said. Now I’m glad I didn’t fight her on any of it, because if I had, I’d want to slap myself when I realized how much thought she put into this.
I drape the two blankets over us and wrap my arms around her shoulders.
“You’re a sneaky one, aren’t you? Had all of this planned out, even the blankets and pillows.”
She grins. “I was totally freaking out all day; I couldn’t wait to see your face. I mean, fireworks. The one thing that always makes Cooper Lowry happy.”
I kiss her cheek, tug her body a little closer, and shift my arms so they’re around her waist, leaving my mouth pressed to the side of her face. “I’ve got a few other things that make me happy.”
“Football? Is that what you mean? I told you that doesn’t count—it’s too easy.”
“Nope.”
“Apple butter?”
I make a vaguely agreeable sound; the apple butter is damn good, but it wasn’t what I had in mind. She purses her lips, feigning complete concentration.
“I know. It’s rooibos tea. You love it.”
Forcing a low choking sound, I shove my cold hands under her sweater, hoping to make a point that the tea is gross. She yelps at the contact of my frigid hands to her warm, soft skin.
“Hey!”
“My hands are cold.”
“Clearly. You ever hear of gloves?”
Her skin pebbles up until I start to caress it, warming her with each stroke. “I like this way better. But just to clarify, you make me happy now. And touching you makes my hands happy.”
My hands are happy now. They’re up under Whitney’s clothes and, aside from grasping a football, that’s their happy place. I snake one hand up, closer to her breast, enough to let my thumb graze the underside. Whitney arches her back, subtly pushing the soft swell toward my touch.
“Thank you, by the way. I love that you remembered this. The whole night makes me feel like I’m home again.”
“Warm fuzzies? About your glory days?”
“Kind of.” I sweep my thumb higher, taking a slow trip across her nipple. “What about your glory days? I’m curious what you were like in high school.”
Whitney snorts. “Like I am now, but worse. I was a radical idealist. But, you know, absent of all the pesky levelheadedness that comes with adulthood. Also, I had dreads.” She cranes her head to see me. “Were you a jock? Every cheerleader’s dreamy fantasy?”
I give her earlobe a little nip. “Football was everything, so I didn’t have time to be anybody’s fantasy. If I wasn’t practicing or playing, I was working on the ranch or studying.”
Looking out at the football field in the distance and knowing that Whitney’s never seen me play means there’s something incomplete between us. Even if she isn’t into the game, even if I’m on my way out, I want to know she saw me at my best, just once. Taking a deep breath, I press my lips to the crown of her head.
“Hunt thinks I might make the field in a few weeks if my knee cooperates. If I asked you to come to one of my games, would you?”
She cranes her head back to see me and her forehead tightens up. “Of course I would. Did you think I wouldn’t?”
I shrug. “Just don’t want you to feel like you have to.”
“I wouldn’t feel like that.” A starter firework goes off, small and unspectacular. She nudges her shoulder back into my chest and I meet her eyes, earnest and intent on mine. “I wouldn’t.”
I kiss her temple and work to shake off the tightness in my chest, brought on by knowing Whitney would show up for me just because I asked. To thank her—and keep my unsteady heart in its proper place—I put my hands to work again, teasing across the silk of her bra and changing the subject along the way.
“I’m guessing the teenage Whitney only hung out with those granola crunching–type dudes, right? With a ponytail, wearing Teva sandals. Driving around in some piece-of-shit Subaru.”
She shrugs her shoulders, admitting to exactly that. I lower my voice but keep my mouth close to her ear.
“Did you let those guys touch you? Like this?”
I reach up and draw one of her tits into my hand, gripping hard enough to remind her I’m not like those guys she ran around with in the past. She mutters something that’s probably supposed to sound like a protest, but when her head falls back to meet my chest, the look on her face says the opposite.
Her knees are slightly bent but tipped together, and when I let my other hand skim across the lowest part of her belly, just above the waist of her jeans, her legs fall open a bit.
“What about here?” My palm moves to cup her completely over the denim, and she groans, reaching for my hand.
“Cooper,” she whispers, a weak reprimand, countered by the desire that’s impossible to ignore.
The fireworks show is in full swing, lighting up the night sky. One nip to her ear and I kiss my way down from there, across her neck and over her collarbone. She gives my hand a little swat. “Seriously, Cooper. We cannot have sex here.”
I chuckle. “I know that. Don’t worry, I’m planning to wait until we get home to bend you—and this dick-tease sweater of yours—over something sturdy.”
Taking a quick scan of the parking lot, I decide that despite the location, the sides of the truck bed obscure enough to keep going a little. I slip my fingers to the button on her jeans and toy a bit. Her body goes taut, anxious, so I slow my movements, hoping I can convince her with my hands and an attempt at sound reasoning.
“The nearest car to ours is five spaces away and we’re hunkered down in the truck bed. No one will know I’m getting you off under these blankets.”
I hold my breath, waiting it out a few beats, just to see if she’ll latch on to my wrist to stop me. When she doesn’t, I kiss the side of her neck just as my hands make quick work of the button and zipper on her jeans. One of my hands sneaks inside her panties, middle finger moving to part her, and fuck, I can feel how much she already wants this. A strangled moan leaves my throat at the discovery, and she echoes the sound, but softer and needier.
She sucks in a breath. “You’re supposed to be watching the fireworks.”
I use my other hand to tug down one of her bra cups, letting her nipple graze the softness of her sweater as the weight of her breast fills my hand.
“If I do this right, I get two shows in one. Do you really want me to stop? Just say the word.”
“Jesus,” she mutters. “Why do you have to be so good with your damn hands?”
A huge firework goes off just as I ask if she wants to keep going. The sound drowns out her voice but she nods, and that’s enough for me.
I yank on her other bra cup, then work the neck of her sweater down so that her breasts are nearly spilling out. I follow with a few slow strokes between her legs, making sure I’ve slicked her arousal properly across the entire span of her pussy. My dick definitely wants in, but I refuse to do so much as roll my hips to ease the ache. She gave me so much tonight—from the fireworks to the realization that I might be more than a guy on the wrong side of his career—so the least I can do is give her a fucking orgasm, just for her, without trying to steal some of the action for myself.
We’ve been together enough that I know exactly what she likes, the way she doesn’t need too much pressure, just consistency, a steady circle of my fingers and the occasional flick of my thumb and middle finger to roll her clit.
I lean in enough to trace my lips to the shell of her ear. “Did those other guys get you wet? Or am I the only one who knows how to make you this slick?”
She doesn’t respond, just bites down on her lip. I’ve never craved validation like this from a woman before. But looking down into Whitney’s face, the need to know I’m giving her everything swells up before I can stop it.
“Whitney, I want to hear you say it. Tell me who gets you off.”
“Every time?”
She smiles a little and nods. “Every time.”
My entire body absorbs her answer. Contrary to what some believe, real men love giving women orgasms—we don’t feel put out or obligated, we fucking live for making it happen. It plays to every boastful hey, look what I just did instinct we possess. Because when a woman comes apart under our stellar handiwork, we feel like a king, stronger than an ox, and a thousand feet tall.
Tonight, when it happens, she has to work hard to stifle the sound, and the only thing I regret is not getting to watch her ride it out the way she normally does. But the grand finale is in the sky, Whitney is loose and spent in my arms, and I feel a million feet tall.